I Carry Your Heart With Me
by patsan
Summary: When Mary walks home from the train station after Richard's proposal, she finds herself at Crawley House. It's just a coincidence, and yet words spoken in a gentle voice come back to her. "Tell him what's in your heart. Then even if he's killed, and he may be, you won't be sorry." And what if she'd done just that? Or at least... tried to? 2x02 onward AU
1. Chapter 1

Good Wednesday to you all, lovely _Downton Abbey _fans :)

I'm so very glad to finally present you with the first chapter of this story. I've been working on it for quite some time now, and so I might be a little emotional right now... :D

Yes, another what if scenario, for which I have to thank the wonderful EOlivet and one of her thought provoking posts. I'm sure many of us wondered watching that scene from episode 2x02: what if things had gone differently? And how so? Well, this story tries to explore that possibility and I hope it does so in a believable, true to the characters way.

Thank you to **EOlivet **for her continuous support and enthusiasm for this story. It won more than one writer block and boosted my ego to no end :)

So, without further ado, enjoy!

_Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I'm just, very gladly, borrowing them for fun._

* * *

**_I Carry Your Heart With Me_  
**

**Chapter One**

"You see, I want you to marry me."

It shouldn't be a surprise, really, but it is and Mary is not prepared to hear it. She looks him straight in the eyes and asks the only question that counts. "Why?"

"Because I think very highly of you."

_"Do you love me enough to spend your life with me?"_ She has to avert her eyes. She can't do this, not so soon. "Very highly! Goodness."

"I mean it. I think we'd do well together. We could be a good team."

Mary smiles at this. "Now, that sounds better". She stops, looking past Richard's shoulder at the train that's just arrived, at the passengers rushing onto it. She hesitates, but what's been in her mind ever since he arrived in a shiny car on Saturday evening comes out of her mouth. "... but I can't help thinking that tradition demands... a little mention of love." She hates that Matthew's face appears in her mind just as she pronounces the last word, her breath catching in her throat at the sudden ache she feels.

"Oh, I can talk about love and moon and June and all the rest of it if you wish, but we're more than that," he says, and his voice is smooth, his tone so sure. "We're strong and sharp. And we can build something worth having, you and I, if you'll let us."

And that's the whole point, isn't it? Building something together. _"He is a powerful man, Mary, you'd have a comfortable life with him,"_ Aunt Rosamund said back in London. Comfortable maybe, but would she be happy? As happy as-

But Mary doesn't want to think about that. And Richard is right, the way he sees things calls to the practical side in her. "Your proposal is improving by leaps and bounds," she concedes with a tilt of her head. And then what she knows he wants to hear. "You must give me some time, but I promise to think about it. Properly."

And Richard, ever the businessman, smiles an approving smile. "I'm counting on it."

She can't help but smile back, but as he turns his back on her and boards the train the smile vanishes just as it came. Mary watches the train leave, nodding to Richard one last time, and slowly makes her way out of the train station, the hard clack of the metal wheels on the rail too loud in the quiet village even from afar.

* * *

Mary distractedly walks the narrow streets of the village, no hurry in her steps as her gaze slides on rain battered stone and small but solid houses. The shadow of a smile curves her lips, but it's sad for she's painfully aware that in accepting Richard's proposal she will have to say goodbye to all this.

She knows she can't stay home forever, of course, she _will_ marry eventually and she _will_ move on and out of Downton. As her mother keeps repeating, she's not getting any younger and with all the eligible men at war and her reputation somehow... _tainted_- Well, she knows she has to settle. Maybe it is time and Richard is just the opportunity she's waiting for (she doesn't dwell on the fact that he's probably her _last_ chance too).

That's not all there is to it though. A small part of her knows that Richard is right, they _can_ be good together. They are both rational, they look at the matter at hand and move on from there. They _could_ build something worth having. Even with his lack of social propriety - or maybe because of it - Richard certainly is a charming man, and he is smart, canny, he knows how to act in a world that's changing. With him she will have a house, a position. More than that she'll have a proper life, the life she longed for and yet felt so out of her reach when she was twenty and still unofficially attached to Patrick. Lady Mary Carlisle, she knows, could be a force to be reckoned with among London's society and with the protection of a man like Richard... she will be free. No more obligation to Downton, no more arrangements for her to marry the man who sits next to her at dinner.

Mary lets out a deep sigh. She wishes it were that simple, but for all her claims to be a pragmatic person she does believe what she told Richard. A marriage proposal should have some mention of love, if not at the moment, at least there should be the _promise_ of love, the hope of _someday_... But as much as she likes Richard - because she does, really - love is not what she feels towards him. And the horrible truth is she's not sure she will ever feel that way for him.

It's kind of funny, really, that they call her cold and say she doesn't have a heart, something she herself believed for quite some time. But then, how can she pretend to be heartless when her heart keeps bleeding and burning in her chest every time she thinks of-?

She closes her eyes for a moment, blocking the images away, blocking his name that keeps creeping into her mind like poison, but it's useless and suddenly she's back in time, the warm August sunlight shining down on them, but she could feel none of it for his broken voice was shattering every last hope she had. His pained expression as he left still haunts her dreams at the end of a particularly tiring day.

She walks some more, barely aware of where her feet are taking her, and when she glances up from the street there's Crawley House right in front of her. It must be a coincidence, surely, but it's just so fitting that everything in her life must remind her of _him_. She wishes she could close her eyes and forget, just for a few moments. She wishes she knew how not to feel this wretched every time her thoughts wander to _him_, but things are the way they are and Mary was never one for blaming others when she knows perfectly well where faults truly lie.

_Friends_. He said they were friends. And really, that should be enough. She knows she's lucky to at least have that. Anything else is impossible and maybe it's better this way. He looks well now, a quiet kind of happiness shining through his smile.

_Friends_. It should make her happy and yet a simple word has never crushed her more.

She stops then, unsure of what to do now that she's here. They're supposed to come over for dinner, Matthew, cousin Isobel and Lavinia, but she can't shake the sudden and overwhelming need to see him _now_, to talk to him _now_, especially now that her life is on the verge of changing so much. Because... it _is_, isn't it?

Mary lets out a sigh and tries to put her worries aside, but as she walks up to the opening in the small stone fence, as she walks past it and onto the path that leads to the house, words spoken in a gentle voice come back to her and she finds herself in a barely lit room, looking down at a man that watches her with the deference of a servant and the affection of a father. _"Tell him what's in your heart,"_ he said. _"Then even if he's killed, and he may be, you won't be sorry."_

She freezes on the spot, her heart beating fast. This is not why she's here. It can't be. She can't- she can't really think of that! It would be- And Matthew is happy now, happier than he ever was with her. She _can't_! She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to take a few breaths, deep and slow, in and out, her hands now clutching at the little purse they hold.

_No_, she has to go. She can't be here, she can't see him when she's so upset, she-

"Mary?"

Mary opens her eyes and for a moment she can't breathe, panic swirling inside her. She wishes she could just disappear, but that's not going to happen, is it? So she straightens her shoulders, takes another deep breath and puts on her best smile. She turns around to greet him. "Matthew. How are you?" And for the second time today she is struck with the feeling that_ she is not ready_.

Matthew stops a few feet away from her, taking his cap off, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion. "I'm... fine, I suppose. Just come in from the hospital. Sybil was there."

Mary smiles feeling a little more at ease at the mention of her darling sister. "Yes, she is quite the professional. Mama is so worried she'll make herself ill with all that work."

Matthew nods at that. "It's honourable of her to want to do her part though. You must all be proud of her."

"We are, of course we are." They smile at each other, but Mary looks away quickly, staring at the hands holding her purse. She knows her knuckles are white underneath the gloves.

Matthew's the first to break the sudden silence and when he speaks his voice is warm, but there's something unsure about his tone. That's why she has to look at him. "Mary is... is everything alright? I- Well, you know you can tell me anything," he adds taking a step towards her. He looks concerned and she wonders what he did actually see earlier.

"I... Of course, you needn't worry," she smiles brightly, but has to avert her eyes again and her voice is shaky. All her previous thoughts come back to her, Richard's proposal comes back to her, Aunt Rosamund's words, Carson's advice, even Anna's gentle speech swirl in her mind, leaving her breathless.

_He might be killed._

"Mary," Matthew says and it sounds like a question.

She looks at him then, watching him watching her and she's reminded once more of the last time they were this close, talking to each other, trying to be honest about what they felt and failing. At least from her part. Could this be her last opportunity to make things right?

"Matthew I-" she begins. And stops. Making what right? She _can't_ tell him, she can't tell any of it, it's not her place anymore.

Matthew frowns at her hesitance, at the turmoil that must be so easy to read on her face. He takes another step, stopping right in front of her. "Mary," he whispers and her name is like a prayer this time. And in this moment she knows she can't lie to him anymore. Even if it's too late, even though he won't want to have any part in her life after this, she can't keep lying to him, let him believe she is something she's not.

She takes a deep breath and raises her chin. Her voice doesn't quiver and she meets his eyes undefeated. "I have something to tell you, Matthew, but the truth is... I'm not sure I can." When Matthew keeps just staring at her, confusion showing on his darling face, her lips involuntarily curve into a little sad smile. "Someone recently told me that one regrets being honest less often than one regrets telling lies and I think I agree."

She pauses and closes her eyes. The words are difficult to get out, but she's here and he's here and there is no going back now.

"I haven't been honest with you, Matthew, not for a long time, and if we ever are to be friends again I feel I need to be honest, even though it's probably useless since there's little doubt that you would despise me afterwards." A humourless half laugh escapes her lips at that, but he's still silent and Mary can't read him. "The thing is... when we last parted, before you- before you joined the army, I let you think that I didn't care enough for you to accept you when your prospects were changed, and I... It wasn't-"

She drops her eyes on the ground between them, unable to keep looking at him, the words stuck in her throat. "Matthew, it's-"

"Mary! I thought I saw you!"

The sound startles them both, breaking through the thick atmosphere. Mary looks over Matthew's shoulder, while he turns to watch Lavinia walking towards them, a gentle smile on her face as she reaches Matthew and puts a hand on his arm. "I wasn't expecting you to come home so soon. Is everything alright?" she asks quietly to him.

Matthew smiles at her. "Of course. Mother was busy at the hospital and once I helped them settling the new wounded there wasn't much I could do."

"I hope it wasn't too grim," Lavinia says worriedly, but Matthew doesn't answer, a shadow passing on his face. Lavinia gives him a reassuring smile and Mary feels her heart constricting from both Matthew's distress and the brief exchange she's witnessed. When they both turn their attention to her, Mary's unable to meet their eyes.

What is she even doing here, invading their space, their little bubble of domestic happiness? How could she think, even for a second, that digging up the past was a good idea?

"Would you stay for luncheon, Mary?" Lavinia asks kindly. "I know that we're expected to come for dinner tonight, but it would be such a pleasure to spend more time together."

Mary smiles at her tone for she really sounds like the mistress of the house. _As it should be._ "Actually," Mary says finally meeting her eyes, "they're waiting for me at the house, but thank you, thank you very much." She gives Lavinia a grateful if strained smile. "I'll see you tonight then," she adds before nodding in their general direction and walking past them.

She closes her eyes for a brief moment then squares her shoulders as she leaves Crawley house behind. She walks some more up the street that from the village leads to the abbey, but her breathing is too fast, her heart's beating wildly and it's not long before she has to stop. She glances back at the village, the image of Lavinia's hand on Matthew's arm vivid as it was moments ago. Mary shakes her head, not allowing her mind to dwell on things she can't change, and resumes her walking with little, measured steps, one foot in front of the other. Her chin is high, her breathing is even, she's every inch the lady she was raised and bred to be.

She should be proud of her self-control, then why is it that all she can feel is a growing despair?

**_To be continued..._**

* * *

_And this is all for chapter one. I do hope you're intrigued enough to keep reading this story :)_

_I believe there's a lot of conflict inside both Mary and Matthew's minds and hearts so early in season two, you know, with so much that's changed, and yet so little truly has when feelings are concerned, whether they acknowledge it or not. For me, as someone who loves these characters and loves writing, it's a very interesting situation to explore. I can only hope you feel the same._

_I'm not sure I will be able to update weekly, but I will try my best. Meanwhile I would LOVE to know your thoughts on this first chapter. They really help and rest assured that I appreciate each and every one of your words :)_


	2. Chapter 2

Good Friday lovely _Downton Abbey_ fans :)

To say I'm thrilled by the response to this fic is an understatement! I am absolutely psyched that this AU scenario caused so much excitement and I'm so very humbled by your kind words! So thank you, thank you very much :)

Someone asked me to do some Matthew's point of view, that they felt like we didn't get to see much of his feelings in the show. In a way I think I agree, but only because I believe M/M love story is mainly told from Mary's point of view, which isn't surprisingly, since she is from Downton and Matthew comes in only later (and isn't it how it works with all the other love stories on the show too?). But even so Matthew is such a captivating character in season two and there's so much going with him, so of course I'm writing his point of view too! And it was such a fascinating tour into his mind and heart :) I hope I did him justice.

But too much talk already! I must thank **EOlivet**, who is amazing as we all know, and read this chapter too many times to count!

That said… enjoy the chapter!

_Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I'm just, very gladly, borrowing them for fun._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"Lavinia seems a bit upset."

Matthew presses his lips together, frowning as he looks at his fiancée walking to the farthest end of the garden through the window of the sitting room. She left in a hurry mere minutes ago, a tight smile on her face, claiming that she needed some air.

His mother watches him expectantly from her armchair near the fireplace. He sighs before finally answering. "She's awfully cut up that I have to go early, but it's only to Coventry, which doesn't sound too dangerous to me."

He can tell his tone is a bit too flippant by the silence following his statement, but he can't help but feel a little... unsettled by Lavinia's behaviour. He'd tried to talk to her this morning after the telegram arrived announcing he was needed earlier, but she'd just shut him out, busying herself with embroidering instead. Only when he'd announced he was going up to the hospital she'd seemed to relent a little. She'd asked when he was coming back and then leaned up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"She's just worried, darling. I think that's quite understandable."

There's a note in his mother's tone that makes something inside him soften. "I know," he admits with a resigned sigh, "but I wish she wasn't so openly so."

He understands Lavinia's worries, of course, but there's nothing he can do about them. And the truth is even if he could... well, he now knows he wouldn't. When this tour is done he will go back to the front. He's specifically asked for this and Strutt has given his word, not surprised in the least by his request.

He stares at the lone figure sitting in the garden and wonders how could he possibly explain to her what he feels when he thinks about... over there. The thought goes just as it came, though, because there's no way he can make anyone understand. And he wouldn't want them to.

He closes his eyes and as always he's back there, the rumbling of the shells loud in his ears, mud splashing in front of him as the men run for cover. He presses his hand on the glass in front of him, swallowing hard as he takes deep, slow breaths to calm himself. He focuses on the quietness of this room, on the screeching of his mother's pen on the paper, on the sounds of the servants moving around the house.

When he opens his eyes at last, his gaze falls on the tulips growing just outside the window.

France used to be such a fascinating country to him. He'd even hoped to go there on his honeymoon once. What a silly dream that was, it seems like another man's dream now, a man who didn't know the littlest thing about life. He almost smiles at the uselessness of it, but it's sad and a little bitter and this time, when he closes his eyes again, it's not mud he sees, nor the chill of nights spent in the trenches. There are dark eyes and darker hair and the sad curve of a mouth and something in him that still doesn't want to find peace, not even after all this time.

He dips his head, looking down at his hand on the glass, thin condensation surrounding his fingers. He wipes it away.

When, a little while later, the door finally opens, Moseley coming in to announce that luncheon is ready, Matthew turns away from the window almost in relief, thanking the butler and offering his arm to his mother. She smiles up at him, proud and gentle, before graciously accepting, and together they follow the older man out of the room and into the hallway.

* * *

Several hours later Matthew is pacing that same hallway. Lavinia and his mother are upstairs dressing for dinner and he's been waiting for quite some time. His patience is wearing thinner, to be honest, but he's the only one to blame for it, since a restless afternoon has led him to ring for Moseley long before the needed time.

He stops, turns on the spot, puts his hands behind his back and starts walking again. When he arrives at the end near the door he looks outside to see his butler standing next to Branson by the car. He can't hear what they're saying from a distance, but the chauffeur has a daring frown on his face and the older man looks grim so he knows they must be talking about the war. He tears his eyes from them and resumes his steps in the other direction.

He sighs and scoffs, tired of this fretfulness he's felt all afternoon. Frankly, it's getting ridiculous. He hasn't been this nervous over a dinner party since the first time he came to Downton. The reasons for his uneasiness might have been different then, but it's kind of funny how all these years later they must somehow be linked to the same person. Matthew stops, wiping his hand across his forehead and then through his hair. He tried not to think about their encounter earlier today and it worked for some time. Luncheon was filled with chatter of the hospital, then Lavinia had news from her father to share and by then they were retiring into the sitting room. But when he'd found himself alone it had been nearly impossible to keep his mind from going back to this morning and _her_.

He usually cherishes Mary's presence, he's always liked having her around, even before his folly got in the way, and neither the war nor the two years separation have changed that, but this is different. He still doesn't know what to make of the overwhelming desire to reach for her he'd felt this morning when he first saw her. Even with her back toward him he could see the tense set of her shoulders and how her head bowed. She'd turned around when he'd called her, looking him straight in his eyes, but her smile was too bright and her voice too cheerful and he'd instinctively known something was _not right_.

She'd tried to brush it off at first, of course she would, but then she'd began talking and her words...

He still can't understand if he's more shocked by her bringing up the past or about what she said. Not that she'd said much anyway, but as she spoke an uncomfortable heaviness began setting low in his stomach, and _that_ he really doesn't know what to make of.

He takes a long breath and he's shocked to see that his hands are slightly trembling. He stuffs them in his pockets, wondering not for the first time how he's going to get through this evening.

* * *

Dinner is a subdued affair. Everyone does their best to keep the conversation flowing, filling him in on every change at the estate - Edith has volunteered as a tractor driver, apparently, and Sybil's tired, but takes great pride from her work at the hospital. Unexpectedly cousin Violet is her best champion and he doesn't think he's ever seen his mother getting along so well with the Dowager Countess. He talks when he's addressed, making a comment now and then, but there's a side of the table he can't look at.

He doesn't hear her talk much, aside from a few words about Sir Richard Carlisle when her father asks if he got off alright. He looks at her then, her eyes on her youngest sister, her delicate fingers curling around her glass. He quickly averts his eyes when she turns her head around to listen to what cousin Cora has to say. He glances up a moment later and sees her smiling to her mother, but it only lasts a second. When she looks into her plate again her lips are tight and her gaze is distant.

"Is everything alright, darling?" Lavinia mutters next to him.

He watches the small hand on his arm, then looks up into Lavinia's eyes, and forces himself to smile. "Yes, it is, don't worry."

When Cora announces the ladies are going through he can't help but feel a little relieved, but once alone with Robert all he can think about is how defeated Mary looks. Did she look so downcast the last time he'd seen her? She'd been quiet then, and kind with him. She'd given him a lucky charm and a kiss, and her eyes, dark and warm, were glistening with tears.

"Isobel said you visited the hospital today?"

Robert's words interrupt the course of his thoughts and his eyes go briefly to the man sitting beside him, then look down at his hand on the white tablecloth, his fingers flexing. "I did. It looks nothing like the hospital we used to know."

"Sybil rarely talks about it, but she does say they're always in need of more space." Robert nurses his drink, a sombre expression on his face. He's still looking into his glass when he asks, "what was it like?"

Matthew doesn't lift his gaze, but for a moment he remembers sitting at this very table, looking into wide, unassuming eyes. _"What's it been like?"_

He couldn't talk about it with Mary then no more than he can talk about it with Robert now. What's it like? It's like nothing he's even seen. Like nothing _anyone_ has even seen. Here, there, it's rotten, it makes no sense. As he answers the question speaking of unfulfilled prayers - they're _his_ as much as they are his men's - his voice quiet in the stillness of the room, he wonders how much Robert truly understands. He's been a soldier away from home for many years, he knows, so he must know what it's like, but can he really _see_?

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, his mind blank except for flashes of white and puffs of black, the darkness of endless nights and the unnerving dragging on of some useless days.

When they finally join the ladies his eyes immediately find Mary's across the room and he walks towards her without even knowing it, even if Lavinia, he notices, is closer. She's talking quietly with Edith, though, and it's good to see her connecting with the members of his family, especially after what she went through today, so he turns to Mary and answers her warm smile with one of his own. They remain silent for a few moments, both watching the pair on the other side of the room. Edith looks good tonight and he needs something to break the silence with, so he tells Mary just that.

She raises her eyebrows like he's just said something very funny. "She's found her metier," she says and then pauses, his own eyebrows shooting up in curiosity. Mary grins wickedly before adding, "farm labouring."

He should disapprove, but his lips quirk in amusement of their own accord. "Don't be so tough on her."

She tilts her head dismissively. "That's like asking the fox to spare the chicken," but there's a note in her tone that makes him glance at her. She drinks from her glass, eyes trained on her sister, and he takes advantage of this moment to look at her.

She really does seem tired.

"What about you? Have you found what you're looking for?"

She turns her head meeting his gaze and grins. "You know me, Matthew. I take my fun from making others miserable."

It's meant to be a joke and yet something about it bothers him. He frowns and leans slightly towards her. When he talks his voice is low, but his tone is certain. "That's not who you are."

She rubs her lips together before answering in a similarly low voice. "Not according to Edith and probably half the people who live in this very house." Her eyes are cast down on the amber liquid swirling in the glass she's holding.

He frowns, but doesn't comment on what she's said, his mind going back to what he saw this morning. She seemed deeply upset, unsure, a little lost even. And... it wasn't the first time he'd seen her like that. Almost unconsciously Matthew turns more fully towards her, that overwhelming need to be sure she's alright making him swallow nervously.

"Mary," he says and stops. She tilts her head to look at him, her eyes unreadable as they often are to him. He clears his throat before speaking again. "This morning, when you came to Crawley House, you said-"

"Oh Matthew," she whispers, a tinge of fear hiding behind the playfulness of her tone. "You know you must forget the things I say."

Matthew's eyes widen at this and he's barely aware of the fact that Mary's do as well, as a shockingly vivid memory of what happened the last time she pronounced similar words pierces his mind. He tears his eyes away from her, and suddenly he needs to move. He puts his half empty glass on the nearest table instead and takes a deep breath. He's going to say something, maybe even make his excuses and leave, when her quiet voice stops him.

"I'm sorry. That was the wrong thing to say."

He presses his lips together, taking another breath, and turns his head meeting her eyes again. She's smiling apologetically and he can't help but give her a little smile in return. He nods imperceptibly, acknowledging the truth in her words. "It probably was, but please don't feel the need to apologize."

"Then I won't, but I'm glad there are no misunderstandings between us."

"As am I."

They smile at each other for a few more moments, then Mary excuses herself and walks away from him to join her grandmother in front of the fireplace. Matthew pauses for another minute, grabbing his drink back and finishing it, before making his way towards his mother.

* * *

He doesn't speak to Mary again. He talks with Robert and Cora, he's moved by Sybil's strength and enthusiasm, matching even his mother's, he's comforted by Lavinia's presence right beside him. A few times he feels Mary's eyes on him. Once he meets them and they smile at each other from across the room.

When the clock strikes eleven he announces they're going back home. "My my," cousin Violet comments, "even Cinderella had a hour more on her curfew." He chuckles along with a few members of the family and just like that the evening comes to a close.

In the end it's just him, Robert and Mary in the monumental hall, with Lavinia and his mother already waiting for him in the car.

"Take care of yourself, my boy," Robert says shaking his hand. "And come visit whenever you can."

"I can't make promises on the visits, but thank you."

Robert nods, smiling warmly at him and Mary before bidding them goodnight and leaving. For some reason it doesn't surprise him that she is the last person to say goodbye and he's glad she is, for he finally has the chance to say what's been on his mind since they parted earlier.

"You can promise you'll miss us, then," Mary remarks with a quirk of her lips.

He grins back, dipping his head. "I don't need to make promises on this, I know I'll miss you."

Her smile widens at his words and she looks down for a moment before raising her head again. Matthew pauses, gathering his thoughts, his heart strangely speeding up as he looks deeply in her eyes. "I meant what I said this morning, Mary. You _can_ tell me anything."

He can read the surprise on her face for bringing up their conversation from this morning again and he senses she's about to say something to feign ignorance or simply brush it off like she did earlier, but he's determined. They're friends now and he treasures her friendship. He needs her to know it.

"I know something is bothering you and I understand that it has something to do with our... past," he stops, averting his eyes, but looking up again a second later. Their eyes lock. "Whatever it is you feel the need to talk to me about or... apologize for... I want you to know that you don't really need to, but I can understand better than others how much making peace with the past matters in order to... move forward." His eyes dart significantly to the front door and he sees Mary's doing the same. A little smile graces her lips and he knows she understands what he's trying to say so poorly. "When you're ready to tell me, whatever it is, I promise I'll listen. You can count on me."

Mary is silent for a few moments, looking past him, past the open door. When she talks her voice is quiet. "Would you be happy if I did? Move forward?"

His lips curve in a gentle smile. "Of course. I've found someone now and I want you to do the same." _I want you to be happy._

Mary doesn't answer, but her smile is kind and he feels relieved, the uneasiness of earlier finally melting into the warmth of her eyes.

As they finally say goodbye and part, as he gets into the car, Branson ready behind the wheel, as Lavinia lets her little hand slid into his, entwining her fingers with his, and the grounds of the estate speed up outside the windows, he thinks that there are parts of her words from this morning that he still doesn't understand, that he's still not sure he wants to understand, but he means what he said wholeheartedly. He wants her to find someone, he wants her to know how it feels to be loved and cherished. She should know what happiness really is.

And if something deep inside him suddenly stops and shatters at the thought, he doesn't acknowledge it, taking hold of the fingers threading through his own instead.

_**To be continued...**_

* * *

_Darling Matthew._

_I would LOVE the hear your thoughts on this chapter! I make a point of answering to each of your reviews, but even if I don't for whatever reason, please know that I appreciate every word and that they never fail to put a smile upon my face :)_

_Till next time!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Happy Monday, lovely _Downton Abbey_ fans, and happy post-premiere day! But what a wonderful premiere we had! I don't think I will ever get over how sexy M/M were together. And I'm so glad they're finally happy in canon, after all the suffering they went through :)_

_Thank you so much for your continued support and for your kind words about this fic. RL is hectic lately and there are many worries, but reading your thoughts about this story, getting a notification about a new alert (or follow, or whatever are they called these days) always makes me smile and for this I'm very grateful :)_

_Also I am VERY curious about the reactions to this chapter, which is... well, you'll have to read and see for yourself :P_

_Thank you so much to **EOlivet** for the polish and all the encouragement. This fic wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for her :)_

_So... enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The more she thinks about it, the more Mary's convinced she made the right decision. She will tell Matthew the truth (or as much of it as she can) and then... she will accept Richard's proposal.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing table, her pale skin almost glowing in the dark of her bedroom. She studies the perfectly shaped eyebrows, the high cheekbones, the rosy lips that seem to be constantly pressed together these days.

She'd sat here doing this for years, perfecting the quirk of her mouth, the tilt of her head, the glint in her eyes. She's become quite the expert, adding to the natural allure that keeps attracting glances when she walks through the streets of London in the summer or when she enters an elegantly decorated room full of finely dressed people. She's always felt like a prize to be won by the best contestant, even back when there wasn't any contest, not really, the agreement between her father and cousin James making any other option impossible. But she'd liked to look the part, almost (but not quite) deluding herself into believing she indeed had a choice, her smile bright and charming while she flirted with this or that gentleman, making them all believe she was so clever, so beautiful, so worthy.

Then, on a cold winter morning, her gaze fell upon the darkest eyes she'd ever seen and all had been lost.

A knock on the door pulls her from her thoughts. She schools her features into a peaceful expression just in time to see Anna coming in, a white nightdress draped on her arm, the new curling iron just dispatched from London in her other hand. Mary smiles at her in the mirror before rising to her feet.

"Are you up to the challenge, then?" she teases, indicating the object in the other woman's hand.

"I am if your ladyship is," Anna teases back.

Mary raises her eyebrows, conceding the point. "Fair enough, but you should know that I trust you'll do a very good work and won't make any... _drastic_ measures quite necessary."

Anna's smirk is amused and tinged with affection when she says, "thank you, milady, I'll try and do my best."

They smile at each other, Mary's mood already lighter than it was moments ago, the other woman's presence both calming and distracting as it always is. They fall into a comfortable silence after that, Anna busy with the task of helping her out of the evening dress and into the nightgown, Mary's mind thankfully blank. When they're done, Mary sits back on her chair and Anna connects the curling iron to the wall socket. Mary eyes the little tool, while the housemaid picks pin after pin out of her hair, letting it fall in soft waves on her back.

"Is everything alright downstairs?" Mary asks after a few moments. "I'm afraid the new situation will only add to your work."

"Not very much, milady. The nurses took care of almost everything, we just helped when there was need of an extra hand."

Mary nods, wondering exactly how much their life will change now that Downton is officially a convalescent home. It's not only the reduced spaces where they will be allowed to live, although she knows this bothers her father a great deal, nor the new hours they will have to stick to, which she thinks won't be all that different from the past, not if her mother has anything to say about it. She knows both her parents feel like the war caught up with Downton at last, but the truth is it happened a long time ago. It was a sunny morning, the air already tick with hotness even though it was still so early, and they were having breakfast, Papa, herself and her sisters, when Carson brought in a note from Crawley House. She will never forget the colour suddenly vanishing from her father's face, just as it'd done when he first had news about Patrick and James being on the Titanic. His eyes flickered briefly to hers before he left the room without a word. She'd instinctively known what the note said. She'd been fearfully expecting it since that terrible day at the garden party, and there it was, black ink on white paper. Her worst fear, her biggest regret.

She closes her eyes, willing the memory away, but as her mind goes to the officers that will be sleeping in the rooms downstairs she can't help but wonder how is she supposed to move forward when she knows she will be seeing _him_ in each and every one of them, that she will wonder and worry. She reasons that he is safe (_for now_), that he's in England and will stay here for a few more weeks, but... he has to go back eventually, doesn't he? And what if-?

But she doesn't let herself continue the thought. She will go on hoping her prayers will help keep him safe somehow, even though what does she know about God, faith and goodwill? She's always been so focused on herself, on her brilliant future as a countess or a duchess...

She sighs, looking into the mirror again, Anna already at work curling strand after strand of her hair. It feels like a lifetime ago, now, a different, very naive version of herself.

_"I've found someone now and I want you to do the same."_

She closes her eyes again, for just a moment, letting out a slow breath, fighting against the tightness that suddenly constricts her throat. When she opens them, she watches herself in the mirror, lips slightly pursed. She will do as he wishes, she will try and make the best of what she has now.

When she looks up a little while later, she notices the crease on Anna's brow. There's something about her tonight, but Mary can't put her finger on it. "Anna? Are you all right?" she asks, "you seem a bit preoccupied."

Anna stops what she's doing, surprised eyes locking with hers in the mirror. "I- I had a- No, no, never mind."

Mary's eyebrows shoot up. If Anna thinks she will let this drop, whatever _this_ is, she has another think coming. "What? You know I won't give up till you talk."

Anna smiles at this and it's not long before she gives in and does just that, the whole story unfolding through her words. And while she talks an idea slowly forms in Mary's mind. _Making the best of what I have._

Later that night, as she finally lies in bed after talking with Richard over the phone, outlining together a plan to find out whether Bates is still in London or if he came back to Downton after all, she can't help but grin recalling his confident tone, his promises that _he will make her proud_. She knows he's courting her and he must see this as an opportunity to improve her good opinion of him, of course, but still, it's… quite flattering. For some reason it stirs something inside her.

She doesn't know exactly what this means just yet, but being able to help a person she cares about, having someone who's willing to please her, to call if needs be, it feels… nice.

And in this very moment, here in the darkness of her room, under the blankets tucked loosely around her, for the first time in two years, Mary lets herself contemplate the idea of a whole, real life beyond Downton, a life that maybe, just maybe, won't be grim as she made it out to be.

* * *

A few days later she raises her gaze and Matthew is standing just across the hall, talking to his mother and looking smart and dashing in his uniform. Mary stops in her tracks, stunned, and struggles to remember how to breathe. It's useless though, time has gone still and she can't hear anything over the mad thumping of her own heart.

She focuses on the tray in her hands then, a solid reminder of where she is and what she is doing, and she moves away before she can do something foolish like go straight to him. When she arrives in the drawing room, she lays the tray on the first horizontal surface she can find and presses the back of her hand to her forehead. She wills herself to calm down, just calm down. It's not like it's unexpected after all, he said he would be nearby and even though he didn't actually promise he would come, she knew it was a possibility.

She sighs heavily, pausing for a moment, then picks up one of the carafes she brought in and puts it down on the nearest nightstand. The officer sitting on the bed near it thanks her and she gives him a smile in return, nodding to acknowledge his words. She picks up another carafe and moves on to the next bed, and then the next, and then another one, giving and receiving small smiles as she goes, exchanging a few polite words, answering a question when she's asked.

"I'll go and fetch a nurse as soon as I finish here," she reassures the man lying awkwardly on the bed in front of her.

Within a few minutes there are no more carafes left to give, so she takes the empty tray and moves to go out of the room, but when she looks up the whole world seems to stop once more. Matthew is standing by the door, his cap under his arm and his gloves in his hand, looking at her with the most beautiful grin she's ever seen. She takes a deep breath, barely able to stop the trembling of her hands clutching the wooden tray, as she walks the few steps separating him from her.

When she's right in front of him, she tilts her head to the side, smiling warmly at him. She keeps her tone light when she says, "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon. I must say, you do like to surprise."

"Then that makes two of us," he answers, and his voice, his cordial smile, warm Mary to her core.

When she just frowns, not getting the little joke that clearly amuses him so much, he speaks again, raising his eyebrows. "I hadn't cast you as Florence Nightingale, so, you see, it appears you like to surprise too."

Mary's lips quirk to the side and she shakes her head slowly, like she can't believe he had the nerve to say something so silly, but she's glad to see him so playful and in good humour. So very glad. "Well, we can't leave all the moral high ground to Sybil, can we? She might get lonely there."

Matthew chuckles, following her as she moves into the hall. "So, how are you?" he asks after a moment.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you this? You're the one who's been away after all."

"Well, yes, I suppose so," he concedes, helping her fill the tray with new carafes full of water, "but it seems you're facing a rather big change here. Mother told me Downton was a convalescent home now, but knowing it and actually seeing it are two different things."

She watches him looking around the hall in wonderment and can't help but smile. She stops a passing nurse, telling her she's needed in the drawing room, while Matthew waits patiently at her side. When she's ready they go back to the drawing room together. "It does feel a bit unusual, but I think we'll grow accustomed to it. In a way," she adds indicating the tray in her hands, "we already have."

"So I see," he says looking at Edith talking with a patient on the other side of the room.

Dismissing her protests with a smile, Matthew helps Mary with her task, stopping from time to time to talk with some of the officers. She steals glances at him from afar, so grateful to see him looking so well, walking tall among these men, shaking hands and listening to them. His eyes are less haunted than last time she saw him. _If only he wouldn't have to go back._ But she is happy he's here now and that's enough, at least for today.

It's not long before they find themselves in the hall again. She leaves the empty tray on the nearby table and they smile at each other, walking in silence for a few steps to get out of the way of some passing maid.

"Are you going to stay or-?"

"No, I'm here only for a few hours. We've finished in the Midlands and tomorrow we start on the camps in the northern counties. General Strutt knew that my mother lived up here, so he's given me some time off. I'm leaving with the four later this evening."

Mary nods, trying to hide the disappointment that bubbles inside her with a smile. "I think the rest of the family will be thrilled to see you. Papa was in the library last time I saw him."

Matthew thanks her before leaving, but then he stops, turning his attention to her once more.

"What is it?"

"I- Well, it is always good to see you, Mary."

She grins, a little surprised, but so very pleased by his words. "I can't argue with that."

They laugh gently and a sudden thought crosses Mary's mind, unbidden. She bows her head for a moment, frowning, a familiar kind of discomfort setting in her chest. She pauses, feeling his eyes on her. She doesn't want it to happen, but he was right, and if she really wants to have a chance to go on with her life, forgetting the past, all her regrets and useless what ifs, this is the only way.

"Matthew," she says, her voice sounding defeated even to her own ears. She goes on in spite of it. "I imagine you want to spend some time with your mother, but I was wondering if you... if we could talk before you leave. It will only be a few minutes, I promise."

She gazes up at him then and can see understanding dawning on his features. Time stands still for a moment, then he finally gives her a small smile and nods and she doesn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

"Of course," he simply says and without another word he turns and walks away from her.

She tries not to think that's some sort of sign.

* * *

She's sitting on the bench under the old cedar tree when she hears him approaching. She rises to her feet, taking a deep breath and waiting for him to come closer.

"Carson said you were here. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."

"Not at all, I was enjoying the peace."

He nods and they smile at each other, though there's a wariness in the air she can't shake. She's sure he can feel it too.

"Shall we sit down, then?"

She eyes the bench, where she spent so much time reading as a girl, then as a young woman, until one day he came and joined her with a flirty tone and an open smile. It hadn't been her bench anymore.

"I would rather like to walk, if you don't mind."

If he notices the tightness of her tone he doesn't show it. "I don't," he says, falling into step beside her as she begins to walk in the opposite direction from the house.

Silence settles over them, stretching into seconds and then minutes, neither of them seemingly wanting to break the still air that hangs between them, her skin pricking at its undercurrent of tension. She closes her eyes, willing for this moment to never end, to crystallize it in amber and hold onto it forever, hold onto his closeness, his friendship, the warm affection he's given her even though she was so unworthy of it, that she'd told herself would be enough, more than enough, before her stupid mouth ruined everything.

At the same time, though, a part of her can't wait for this whole ordeal to be over, _finally_ over. Once he knows her at last, once he understands what kind of person she truly is, there will be nothing else to hold on to, not a single thing keeping her from seeking what little, lukewarm happiness she has left to hope for in life.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the thoughtful eyes, the delicate curve of his nose, the slightly pursed lips. His hands are behind his back, his steps measured to adapt to her slower pace.

"You've made us proud, you know," she hears herself say before she can think better of it, but once she's started she doesn't see the point in stopping. "All of us, truly. You should hear how highly Papa speaks of you when someone asks. I don't think he would be prouder had you been his own son." She smiles at words that long ago would have made her heart sore and now only fill it with tenderness and love.

He's surprised by her praise, she reads it so easily across his darling face. He smiles shyly, gratefully. "Your father is too good with me. You all are, but… I'm only doing my duty, really, and it's-" he stops then, his feet slowing till they're standing facing each other, so far away from the house that they can barely make out the figures of officers and nurses spilling onto the grounds. When he talks again his head is bowed, his eyes staring into the distance at things she cannot see, mind lost in a place she cannot reach. "It is not at all so heroic as the newspapers make it out to be."

Mary swallows heavily, the haunted look clouding his features so hard to bear. She hates that he feels this way and that she can't help him, would never help him, and not for the first time she wonders if it's fair of her to put more weight on his shoulders. She puts a hand on his sleeve, squeezing his arm. She knows it's not enough to make the look go away and it's not nearly enough to squash the overwhelming sorrow that fills her soul for him. Tears prick at her eyes, but she blinks them away, letting go of his arm at last and taking a step back, away, giving him some space and a few moments to collect himself.

Her own arms hang rigidly at her sides, cool fingers brushing her skirt. She glances at her beloved home, still so grand even from this distance.

"I wanted to say yes, you know." She can feel his gaze on her back and even without seeing him she knows he understands what she's talking about. Everything in her is shouting at her to stop, to try and save what little there is to save, but she can't, that's not how she works, and she will see this thing through, even if it already hurts to breathe. "I wanted to accept you, but I couldn't without confessing something terrible first, and I knew that when I did there would be nothing left for me to accept."

Silence follows her statement and Mary forces herself to turn and look at him. She's not surprised by the tight set of his jaw. He averts his gaze, turning slightly towards Downton, hands behind his back. "So you assumed I would despise you."

She flinches at hearing her own words thrown back at her and when he turns and looks straight at her eyes she can see how easily he's connected the dots among her half told truths. Of course he would.

"I _knew_ you would despise me. You will."

He shakes his head in disbelief, staring down at his hands in silence for some moment. He's still not looking at her when he finally talks, his voice quiet in the still air. "You said you let me believe you didn't care for me when my prospects were changed."

"Yes."

He lifts his eyes on her then, his gaze trapping her in a hold she can't and won't try to escape. When he speaks again it's barely more than a whisper. "Did you?"

She fights against the tightness of her throat, swallowing back a sob. "Yes."

This gets a reaction, and suddenly he walks a few angry steps away from her, only to come back moments later, eyes blazing with disappointment, with hurt, with the shadow of luminous dreams turned to ash. "My God, Mary..." he shakes his head, passing a hand through his hair. He exhales loudly, gazing again at the big house in the background, unchanged and untouched by the drama going on in front of it.

She rubs her lips together, and looks at the ground between them. There's no going back now, he must know every last terrible thing.

"I can't pretend like your new... situation didn't matter to me, because it did." His eyes shoot up to meet hers and she doesn't know what's worse, that they're glassy or that they're so hard. "It was a very different life from what I'd envisioned for myself and I didn't know if... caring for you would be enough." Her voice breaks on the last word and she hates it, memories of heels echoing on a wooden stair coming back to haunt her. She bites her lower lip, bowing her head, and takes a shaking breath. Tears are pooling in her eyes. She doesn't let them fall.

When she dares to look at him again, he's standing perfectly still, facing away from her, gaze lost into the distance.

Neither of them speaks for a while, the oppressive silence encompassing them both. He's the first to break it, in a small, defeated voice. "I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to be said. It's in the past."

He tilts his head towards her, barely looking at her, and for a moment she thinks he's going to say something, but then he turns his eyes on Downton once more and remains silent.

She presses her lips together, head bowed, taking slow breaths, waiting.

"At Sybil ball I was sure you were going to accept me."

Her gaze darts back to him, but he's still not looking at her. Despite everything a little smile curves her lips. "I know." He was so in love back then, nothing shy about him when they could finally steal a moment alone right before the end of the evening. _His_ _hands clutching hers, her back against the wall, his breath hot on her face_.

She squeezes her eyes shut and when she opens them again he's watching her with a sad smile on his own. Every trace of rage is gone now and his eyes are kind as they always are and for some reason it makes her want to cry.

"I have the feeling that there's one last confession to make."

She takes a shaky breath, lips trembling. "Yes, there is."

"I am not going to like it, am I?"

She shakes her head as a single tear finally finds its way down on her cheek. She wipes it away, sniffing, and braces herself for the last act of this pathetic piece they're playing.

"I took a lover once, and he died in my bed."

**tbc**

* * *

_As I said I would REALLY love to know what you thought about this chapter :)  
_


	4. Chapter 4

Good Tuesday lovely _Downton Abbey_ fans and M/M shippers :)

First of all I want to THANK YOU all for all your support and your incredible responsiveness to this fic! It's an AU scenario I've always wondered about, so I'm very happy to see so many people find it engaging as well! And I LOVE reading your comments and how eager you are to find out what happens next! So, yes, thank you so much for this :)

And on this note I must apologize for the tardiness of this update, especially after last chapter cliffhanger! I'm not sorry about that though: you'll agree it was the perfect place to end Mary's part and switch to Matthew's point of view. And about that… well, I know you're kind on the edge of your sits (are you? :P) for Matthew's reaction so I REALLY hope you'll think it in character. As you will see there's a larger use of imagery in this chapter than the previous ones. It seemed the only way to do justice to Matthew's feelings and, well, I hope it works for you :)

Anyway, I've rambled enough. Thank you to **EOlivet**, who's a darling and keeps working her magic for this fic :)

Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I'm just, very gladly, borrowing them for fun._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Time stops.

There's no other verb for it. The natural flow of things just... stops. No more wind whipping through his hair, no more sound of leaves and branches swishing around them, no more distant echoes of faraway voices. Or maybe it's just his heart that stops, and his brain right along with it, because in this moment he only feels a hollow space where his heart should be and he can't understand the words he's just heard.

He takes a step back, hardly aware of doing so, but he can't take his eyes off her.

She's standing a few feet from him, perfectly still, head slightly turned to the side and eyes cast down. He can see tears pooling in them, making them shiny and wide and lost.

Time stops and yet for a long, excruciating moment, he can feel life running through her and only her, and it's like the whole universe begins and ends within the boundaries of her body. It's in the slight trembling of her hands, in her fingers flexing restlessly at her sides, it's in the shallow, quick breaths she's taking that make her chest rise and fall so fast, it's in her luminous skin, in the curve of her delicate neck, in the soft lines of her barely touching lips.

_Mary_.

He can't voice his thoughts, for he doesn't know them. They're flashes of conscience and fragments of feelings and they keep rushing through his mind, going in circles over and over. There's no stopping them, no rest long enough for him to even put just one of them into phrases and speak to say... something, anything. There's just her name, her secretly treasured name, like a prayer on his silent lips, stuck between his tongue and his heart.

_Mary._

Then she lifts her gaze, dark eyes filled with anguish and sorrow falling over him, and her beautiful face rapidly crumbles under his shocked stare. Her pale hand rises to cover her mouth just as she chokes back a sob and all of a sudden everything rushes back to life.

He can hear and see and feel and the world around him is alive and vibrant. The light of the sun hurts his eyes, the wind ruffles his hair and slips into the collar of his shirt, goosebumps rising on the sensible skin of his neck. A shiver runs up his spine, and his chest is heavy, his mouth parched.

He takes a shaky breath and finally he tears his eyes from her, turning his face away, his gaze resting on the distant house.

It used to be such an intimidating place in those first few weeks, but after a while it felt like home. And then on a windy August day it became the symbol of everything he'd hoped for and couldn't have, the sign of his folly.

He keeps watching Downton and it's like he's in two different times at once, suspended in between two sunny mornings that feel equally cold.

She was crying then too. He'd said he would go away and tears had filled her eyes, tugging at his heart. How he'd wanted to stay, that day, to take her into his arms and comfort her and love her, but she didn't ask for it nor did she plead for him to change his mind. She cried and she didn't fight with him, _for him_, and that had hurt almost more than knowing she didn't love him.

Only now he knows she did.

It's funny, in a way things are when they really are not, how badly he'd wanted to understand in those weeks after Sybil's ball. He'd wanted to know what was keeping her from answering, from finally giving in and letting them embrace a long awaited happiness.

Now he almost wishes he didn't know.

But everything's fallen into place at last, dissected parts of some strange, heartwrenching puzzle splattered through time finally fitting together and leaving him empty and he... he just...

An endless silence stretches between them. He knows she's still crying behind him, but it's quiet now, and soft, and he can barely hear her. Part of him wants to turn around and make sure she's alright, that need to protect her still so strong even after everything. The bigger, stubborn part of him, however, can't stand the idea of looking at her. And so he stands, almost completely still, facing her with his back, frowning in the warm spring air.

There's a question burning in his mind that he's not going to ask. He doesn't need confirmation to know, glimpses of a red dress dancing in front of his eyes, and the scorching feel of rejection and the bitter taste of jealousy. He remembers all too well.

He remembers dark eyes and a crooked smile that looked like a snarl. He remembers a predator chasing his prey and a naive young girl brushing everyone aside, leaving _him_ behind, while the two of them disappeared through a richly decorated door.

_"When it comes to cousin Mary, she's quite capable of doing her own flinging."_

Suddenly he feels bile rising up in his throat and he has to swallow hard, over and over, and shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut to try and chase these memories away, to keep at bay all the unwanted fantasies that rapidly populate his overactive brain.

He dips his head, breathing hard and this time, when he takes a step away from her, it's a very deliberate one.

"Matthew..."

Her voice is barely a whisper, a weak, broken whisper, but it makes him flinch and just like that he can't stand it anymore.

God, he knows _everything_, and a wave of sickness hits his gut like the kick of a German rifle. He stumbles with the force of it, taking a deep breath to calm himself, but he can't do it, he can't do any of it and he can't stay. He has to move away, he has to go, the need to remove himself from her presence so strong he feels like he's drowning.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice sounds broken too and he hates that it does. "I'm sorry, I- I have to go."

He turns slightly towards her, dipping his head in her direction, scarcely looking at her - she's standing tall, now, and her eyes are dry - and then, finally, he starts walking away.

He walks away from her - from a part of his life that feels like a whole, terrible mistake.

He walks away from her - from long lost dreams of silky hair falling on marble skin.

He walks away, in long, hurried steps, his feet quickly covering the distance to the house. He walks past the recovering officers and the nurses wandering around the grounds, right up to the entrance door and into the crowded hall. He finds his cap and gloves where he'd left them earlier and stops a housemaid asking her to please inform his mother he's gone back home, that he'll see her there.

He takes a breath before heading back outside, turning down the street that leads back to the village.

He keeps his head straight, focusing on his path, but it's not long before his eyes move on their own accord, drawn - _how typical _- to the place he's left her standing mere minutes ago.

She's nowhere to be seen.

It should make him feel relieved, and yet, for some reason, it does not.

* * *

The days blur together.

He travels via car, sometimes via train. He stops in a different town every few days, visiting city halls and training camps. He listens to the speeches of his superiors and does some of his own. He talks to young men willing to sacrifice their precious years and even, if it comes down to it, their own lives for their country and the kingdom.

Just a few of them are in it for the glory, dreams of epic battles borrowed from adventurous novels written all over their childlike faces, but the majority of these men have a shadow of such fear in their eyes that not even the pride of being trained for the British Army nor the inspired words of general Strutt, hero of the Somme, can scare away.

And then there are a few among their ranks, and Matthew can spot them so easily, who are just trying to escape a life of misery or heartache or maybe both. He recognises them, standing in a crowd with their chests out and their squared shoulders or sitting on a chair frowning while listening to this or that officer.

Some days when he looks at the young soldiers or soldiers-to-be lining up in front of him, so many of them much younger than he is, Matthew wonders if they should be considered men at all. He's tempted to take them by the arms and shake them, yell at them what are they even doing here, why aren't they with their mothers and fathers, with their betrothed or at school.

Sometimes, instead, he watches them all and feels like praying. The war is still very far from being over and the price this country has paid is already too high. And yet there's always need of new soldiers, and the ones that are shipped to France or Italy day after day are each time a little younger, a little more scared, a little less trained. It all seems so pointless one day, but the next one it's the most important thing in the world.

There's rarely place for thoughts of Mary during these days.

He learnt long ago how to deal with a broken heart and he knows how to keep his mind focused on what he needs to do or say. So if general Strutt suddenly looks at him from his chair and asks, "Crawley, what do you think?" in the middle of a meeting, he can articulate his opinion quite well, so much so, in fact, that afterwards the older man would smile, proudly, and declare to the ones surrounding them, "I knew that having a lawyer in our lot would do us good."

Matthew smiles back, dipping his head as a sign of respect and gratitude, but he can't help thinking that that's not what he is anymore. Even after the war is over, after he marries Lavinia, even living at Crawley House - if he comes out of this alive and in one piece, of course, but he doesn't usually dwell on that - he would never be just a country solicitor, no matter how much he liked to think himself as one once upon a time.

Downton is his future and has been for quite some time. The Future Earl, someone calls him these days, and he just shrugs, like it is nothing strange or important, but it is, his whole life turned upside down by a long letter delivered on an otherwise ordinary morning.

He's embraced his role a long time ago, and has no qualms about it, truly, but making peace with all that his role entails, that's a very different matter. For a time he'd thought he knew exactly what was his place in the world and his part in other people's lives, but there's a person who can always turn everything he believes around and leave him wondering what to do with the truths he's uncovered.

He sighs loudly in the small office they've assigned to him along with two other officers. He's done writing his report for the day and the long hours of the night stretch in front of him like a dark alley with no end in sight.

Yes, he can keep his mind sharp and focused during the day, but when the night falls there's nothing stopping it from travelling all the way back to Downton, up to the long street that leads to the big house, under the cedar trees that stand in the gardens like ancient guardians out of some fairytale book. It stops not far from the elegant Corinthian temple Robert's grandfather built, and finds her there, always there, speaking his name in a little broken voice that splinters his heart every time.

_"You would despise me,"_ she'd said.

Does he?

He's asked himself this question many times in the past weeks, and he always comes up with the same answer. No, he does not. Whatever happened in the past, whatever will be in the future, he can't despise her. Never. He doesn't think he has it in him to ever think ill of her.

The truth is he doesn't know exactly what he feels, for he feels so many things at once. Her words keep ringing in his ears making his head spin, a thousand questions pervading every part of his mind.

Some nights he can't stand it anymore, so he gets up in a hurry, busying himself with reading a report or going over the details for the next town they're scheduled to visit, making sure everything is in order and ready. Sometimes he's too spent to even contemplating getting up and so he lies on his back, helplessly staring at the roof of whichever room they'd decided to assign to him, watching with tired eyes as the weak light of a new day chases away the darkness of the night.

When he feels bold and the memories are so vivid it's like she's standing right next to him, he revels in them. It's a sick challenge, it's a slice of heaven that tastes like hell. _How much can a man take before going mad?_

And yet, under all the anger and the disappointment, under the pain and the shock, and the fear and the sorrow, the sultry images and the unwelcome memories, under the guilt that usually squeezes his heart when he finally forces his thoughts to focus on another girl (_a sweet smile and big trusting eyes looking up at him_), under everything that he feels and wouldn't want to, there's a shadow that he can barely acknowledge, because acknowledging it would mean uncovering a part of himself that he can't afford to face, a part he locked away a long time ago.

There's a young man in there, who was in love and thought his love was lost (and what if he learns he was wrong?). There's a woman who watches him with a twinkle in her eyes and wants him to shine by comparison. There are stolen kisses and brushing fingers and a beautiful, blessed night that held all the promises and kept none.

There's the bitter taste of regret and the dangerous land of what if. And there's doubt, the terrible doubt that leaks out from the darkness and calls to his heart.

Matthew stands up abruptly, taking a deep breath and wiping a hand through his hair. That's when he sees his reflection in the nearby window, trembling and glowing in the dark from the dim light on his desk. He stares at it for a moment, frowning, wondering how can he still look the same after... _everything_.

He sighs and slowly makes his way out of the office. He stops just outside the door, looking around for a familiar face until he spots a small group of men smoking under the closest street lamp. He forces every thought out of his mind and joins them, declining a proffered cigarette with a shake of his head.

He listens to their chatters, he chuckles at their jokes, and finally, after much insisting, he shares some memory of his own training. His tale of that one night when the wind slammed open the door of his dormitory to reveal him changing into his nightclothes makes them laugh out loud.

"And the worse thing about the whole matter is that one of my fellow companions pointed my naked buttocks out to the others and cried _'he's getting dressed to go to bed!'_, which most of them didn't, of course. They just slipped out of their clothes and sunk into their beds naked as the day they were born."

There are louder laughs and many sympathetic looks, and Lieutenant Miller almost chokes on his apple, which causes even more hilarity among the officers.

It's late in the night when the two of them part from the group and head back towards their rooms.

"I've heard you're taking the general to visit a convalescent home next week," Miller asks after a while.

"You heard right. My cousin's house has been converted into one last month and when I told him about it Strutt asked me to make arrangements for him to visit."

"It will be good to be back, eh?"

Matthew smiles, a little tighter than the other man is perhaps expecting, but thinking about Downton leads to memories of Mary and with the night ahead of him that's not a course he wants his thoughts to take.

They separate when Matthew gets to his room. He closes the door behind him, pausing against it and focusing on the silence around him, eyes closed. After a while he pushes away from the door and changes for bed with slow, mechanical movements.

When he finally slides under the covers a tired sigh escapes his lips.

Sleep is a long way from reaching him so Matthew turns on his side and looks outside the window at the faint lights of the camp.

He keeps staring at them till the order to retire is shouted from the loudspeakers and the lights are turned off.

**_To be continued..._**

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_And so chapter four ends._

_I really hope Matthew's reaction to Mary's confession didn't disappoint you. At this point of their shared and personal history I think it couldn't be any different. But as always with these two things are so very complicated, it's impossible to categorize them and Matthew walking away from Mary it's only one side of his reaction. I hope the writing – not only this chapter, but the whole fic – did convey this... emotional mess they both are right now, but I'd say especially Matthew, who is so "romantically confused" at this point, way more that Mary is, and trying so hard to keep everything together._

_Of course I CAN'T WAIT to know what you thought about this chapter, which I must confess, wasn't an easy one to write. It had many editions, working on the slightest details to take it right where I wanted it. I'm kind of satisfied with it now, and I can only I hope Matthew's confusion and all his burdens came across for you. As I said and as many of you pointed out in your kind reviews he's such a mess in S2, duty and denial making him conflicted, and the war of course, and his lingering and not fully conscious feelings for Mary._

_By the way the tale Matthew shares with the other officers is a true one, as told in a WWI memoir of a British soldier that can easily be found on line. I just changed a few details.  
_


	5. Chapter 5

Good Wednesday, lovely MM fans, and thank you, thank you so much for the affection you showed for this story these past few months: not a single week went by without a new follow or favourite on this site, or a sweet message/ask on Tumblr. I'm still blown away by the response to this story to be honest, and I can only hope your love for it will grow and grow.

Anyway, I'm really thankful :)

Given all your kind words, and inputs, I'm really sorry I kept you hanging for so long. There was a nice PM I got that actually made me stop and think, at some point, after chapter four was updated, and then life kept me busy, and then the CS of doom happened. Still, I feel like I owe that comment a deeper reflection on Mary, and, I hope, a better understanding of her character, and I think this made the chapter I'm presenting you a lot better than its earlier draft. So, **darkblueyank**, I would like to thank you :)

As always, I'm very grateful to **Eolivet**, unparalleled beta, and wonderful friend :)

Also this story has now a beautiful cover made by **whatifthisstormends**! Thank you, my dear!

So... back to us. Last time we met them, Mary'd just confessed her secret, and Matthew'd walked away from her. Now it's Mary turn to take us for a (long) walk into her head.

Are you ready?

Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I'm just, very gladly, borrowing them for fun._

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**Chapter Five**

**.**

She's here and not these days.

She talks, and eats, and walks but it's not her, it doesn't feel like her, not when she keeps catching herself staring off into the distance so often, mind blank as she listens to her mother endlessly whine about how bossy Cousin Isobel is being, gaze far away while her fingers play distractedly with her necklace when they're all sitting in the drawing room after dinner.

She looks down at her hands on her lap then, her fingers closing in fists over her elegant dress, as she forces herself to focus on the current conversation.

Sometimes she smiles, sometimes she lets a flippant comment casually fall from her lips, barely noticing Edith's disapproving huff, pretending not to see her father's worried look. Mostly, though, she just sits quietly, bearing with a peaceful expression the few hours she's expected to spend in company, patiently waiting for the evening to slowly drag by till she can excuse herself, and retire for the night.

She supposes life goes on as it usually does for those surrounding her, and she envies them, all of them so very sure about their place in the world, with their little tasks to carry on, their important missions, things to do, people to save.

She wishes she too had something to do, and instead, not for the first time in her life, she's just... stuck in a room, figuratively speaking at least, because she can't bear to stay inside all day long, the walls closing in on her like the prison they sometimes are - she wonders if this isn't her destiny after all, to sit in a room and wait, for what she couldn't say.

She wanders the grounds of Downton whenever she can, and she visits the small Corinthian temple in the back garden just as often, her feet taking her there almost of their own accord.

She pauses here some days, looking up at the tall columns, the familiar steps.

When the air is warm, like today, she sits on them, and the soft fabric of her skirt falls lightly around her calves, the wind playing softly with the hem. She rests her elbows on her knees, and she watches the big house in the distance, grandiose and elegant against the cloudy sky of Yorkshire, a place that's precious to her heart as a family member would be.

She's always felt like as if it was owed to her, her birthright, even though the law didn't allow her to actually inherit it. It was always meant to be her home, and she its mistress, and yet...

Mary purses her lips and looks away, her eyes falling on the tip of her dark shoes picking out from under the hem of her skirt. She taps them lightly on the hard rock of the steps, and thinks about how different things are now, how different they have been for a while, because when she watches Downton these days, is with distant eyes, like a dream from the night that you barely remember in the morning.

It slips through her fingers like sand, the dream that was Downton, every one of its grains taking a little moment of happiness, of doubt, of anger with it, as she watches them drop and go, and all she can feel is a dull numbness.

She wore red that fateful day, a shade of purple as deep as the restlessness she'd felt her whole life.

She'd smiled, she'd laughed, she'd talked nonsense over dinner, as she'd tilted her head acknowledging one side of the table, then the other, charmingly, confidently, because this was a dance, and she'd practiced it dozens of times, it was a part that she was born to play.

Maybe it really was a part written just for her, because when he entered her room without permission later that night, and dismissed her fearful words as mere pretences of propriety, when his hard body had pressed hers onto the mattress, and his hands had found their way up her thighs, exposing more and more of her skin as they went... she'd given in.

She'd pushed all her worries aside, instead. S

She'd forced all that she knew, all that she'd had been taught out of her mind, and she'd pretended that the dark fear that settled low in her stomach wasn't her own, for she was young, and curious, and she thought she knew.

Mary closes her eyes now, cheeks a little warm with regret, and shame, and pity as she remembers how it all ended so unspeakably suddenly, in a startling shake, and a little, strangled noise, like that of a dying fox, and all of a sudden silence had stood where moans and heavy breathing had been only moments before.

She remembers a frozen mouth, motionless hands.

Lifeless eyes had stared back at her, and she'd felt her blood going cold, her breath coming faster, as horror had surrounded her, and the impossibility of what was right in front of her had brought tears to her eyes that she didn't know how to stop.

She remembers Anna's shocked silence, her mother's stunned gaze.

She remembers how they carried him to his room, swiftly, hurriedly, in the dim light of dawn.

How they left him there for the servants to find.

How they pretended nothing even happened.

She'd tried to forget, and she'd failed, because how do you stop a ghost from haunting you when you live your life stuck in a room?

How do you run away when you can only, barely walk? And you can't win against yourself, your own mind, you can't _not know_ what the stillness of death is, or how it comes at once, hastily, how it trumps a strong, young heart in the blink of an eye, and squeezes your own heart in time.

She'd tried, so very hard, and she'd pushed, with all her strength, but it was still there, that darkness, that gaping hole that's always been there, in her heart, lurking around the edges of her consciousness.

She'd thought it would conquer it all one day, that it would engulf her whole being, slowly, but surely, sleepless night after sleepless night.

And then… winter ended, and spring came at once, and Matthew, distant cousin Matthew, lawyer from Manchester and Downton heir, the one man she'd made a point to never consider her equal, let alone marry, the same Matthew who'd walked toward her the very day following Pamuk's death, to ask her how she was... _Matthew_... he came to sit with her.

He was looking for her father, he'd said, but his smiles were all for her, and as he sat on her bench that day, not close, but not too distant either, watching her with a quirked eyebrow, and a gentle, teasing smile, she found out that words fell easily from her mouth, and they were sincere, just as his were kind, and she couldn't stop the light blush that covered her cheeks, couldn't hold the smile that curved her lips as though they had a mind of their own.

It was the way he spoke, quietly, thoughtfully, that made her smile, and the way he laughed.

It was the way he looked at her, and the way he listened to her.

It was the fact that unlike all the men in her life Matthew didn't expect her to be practical, like women of her station are supposed to be, which is just another word to say they're complacent.

He didn't belittle the way she felt, didn't dismiss her sorrow, her indignation, almost like it was _his_ indignation too, _his_ sorrow.

Matthew didn't, _couldn't_, know of course, and yet, somehow, he did, he understood, and for the first time in her life Mary had felt... she'd felt as if she was important. As if _she_, Mary, mattered.

She'd found herself growing fonder and fonder of Matthew, though she didn't know it then.

She'd found herself looking forward to his presence at dinner, admiring the way he seemed to know how to counter her pointed remarks with a challenge of his own.

She'd liked how he would ask her things, how he'd want to know her opinions.

She liked that he would say what others didn't, so effortlessly, so earnestly.

She'd loved the way he could make her laugh with a witty comment, with just a quick quirk of his eyebrows.

Yes... love.

Mary looks up again, cheek resting lightly on her open palm as she smiles, just a little, because she can admit it so easily now, that she fell in love with him.

She fell in love with his heart, and his intelligence. She fell in love with his gentle soul, and with that clear smile that's just a little dimmed nowadays, but still so open, so hopeful, still so beautiful.

And then Matthew had kissed her the night of the count, or maybe she'd kissed him, and something inside her shifted, and she'd thought _that_ was important, not the terrible mistake she'd made all those months ago. She'd thought that perhaps... perhaps it didn't count, or that it could be forgiven, that it didn't matter, that she wasn't changed by it.

She'd tried so very hard to believe it, welcoming Matthew with a kind smile whenever he sought her after that first kiss, revelling in his adoring gaze, in his sweet words.

"_You're so beautiful,"_ he'd said in a low voice right before taking her hand and kissing it daringly at Sybil's ball, and she'd felt herself blush, again, and she knew she shouldn't stand so close to him in the crowded hall of Grantham House, but she couldn't find it in herself to care, nor worry about it.

He'd led her onto the dance floor, and they'd danced all night long, and she'd heard women and men whispering that Lady Mary knew how to preserve her position after all, but she pretended not to hear them, and when the evening rolled toward its inevitable end she was the one holding Matthew's hand, smiling breathlessly up at him before leaving the room, a twinkle and an invitation in her eye.

She wasn't surprised when he found her on the balcony facing the inner garden of the house not even ten minutes after that, didn't resist when he took her in his arms at last, arms holding her to him, fingers sliding softly over the skin of her exposed back.

She didn't hesitated, didn't think of anything other than his soft lips when he finally kissed her, like she'd wanted him to do from the very moment she'd laid eyes on him, earlier that evening, looking tall and distinguished in the elegant parlor of the Grantham House.

She sighed into Matthew's mouth, then hid her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his smell, as his lips had pressed behind her ear, then trailed down the skin of her neck, stopping at her shoulder.

She'd squeezed her eyes shut, as she focused on Matthew's heated kisses, his breathless whispers, every one of his sweet promises.

She didn't let a dead man intrude upon that happiness, didn't allow him to destroy a dream she'd never known was hers until that very moment... but... _he_... kept staring at her from the back of her mind, smiling that devious smile of his, telling her that _oh_, she could deceive the world, and good, naive Matthew right along with it, but he knew exactly who she was, for he'd _known_ her, and _taken_ her, and no man would want a used toy, no one would agree to take on damaged goods.

Nobody in his right mind would ever want _her_.

She'd moved away from Matthew with a start, that night on the balcony, then found a way to smile apologetically up at him, her lips trembling, as she'd claimed they'd better get back inside before people began wondering.

Matthew had nodded, still breathless, eyes clouded with desire and affection, and something that had made her heart beat madly in her chest, and they went back, as silently as they could, and as they resumed their earlier steps he kept holding her hand, firmly, in his, and his palm was warm and soft against her gloved one.

They'd smiled at each other from across the room for the remainder of the evening, and it all had felt like a beautiful, magnificent dream, but the memory of his kisses couldn't ease the subtle agitation she felt deep down in her bones, the way his gaze lingered on her from afar could not chase away the knowledge that dreams just don't last, they never do. They melt away in the grey light of the day, and when we've awakened from them the world is a sad place, and we are a little older than we were before.

None of it had mattered in the end, and she'd watched Matthew walk away from her at the garden party a few weeks later feeling as though it was inevitable, so she'd stayed behind, because there was nothing else she could do, and she'd waited, quietly, away from the others, and the hot air of the summer could not warm her, nor did the kind arms that had closed around her trying to shelter her from this pain. She had been grateful, very much so, but as she cried that day she could feel the darkness grow strong again, bubbling slowly inside her, taking piece after piece of her soul.

Days passed, and a letter came, and her world was changed.

And then other days went by, and became weeks, and weeks stretched into months, and every time her father informed the family that Matthew was back on leave, that someone had seen him in Ripon or London, "_safe and sound for now, thank God"_, she too thanked a God she wasn't sure she believed in, but wordlessly, in the secrecy of her heart. And sometimes, at night, when she felt sick with worry, and her mind was wretched with regret, and all she could do was to cry, for hours, till exhaustion wore her out, she found herself on her back, eyes barely open, staring into the darkness of her room, as she imagined another life, a different universe where she was braver than she was, and he knew, and it didn't matter.

_It does not matter now_, Mary thinks, as she smiles to herself, a sad, barely noticeable twist of her lips, because he knows it now, her dark, dreadful secret, and looking at his back as he walked away felt like watching a play she'd seen one too many times - because, really, it feels like it's all they do, he leaves and she stays, and every time he comes back is only to break her a little more.

Mary sighs, her gaze wandering over the grand lawn of Downton, and she finally stands up, smoothing her palms over the wrinkles of her skirt as she slowly makes her way back towards the house.

The sky is darker now, she notices, the last rays of sunlight finding their way through heavy clouds that promise a storm some time tonight. She puts a lock of hair behind her ear, and lets her hand fall back, fingers flexing and curling, then stilling at her side.

She watches the nurses helping some of the recovering officers to come back inside through the French windows of the library, and she sees Edith talking calmly with Mrs Hughes.

Mary looks, and remembers, as past and present mingle together and give way to the future she's about to choose, and she knows she should feel more crushed, but she can't feel anything at all, and it doesn't matter, not anymore.

When Matthew will come home to stay one day (for the opposite is just impossible, and she doesn't even think of it), and sweet Lavinia will be at his side, she will be there too, and she will watch them from afar as they talk quietly to one another at dinner, planning a whole lifetime of shared love, and happiness, and light-haired children. She will grin at them from across the drawing room, from her place in church, drinking a cold glass of champagne back at Downton.

She will smile, the perfect guest, the careful, elegant lady she was always meant to be, and her heart won't break, because there will be nothing left to break, and her smile won't fade, because hope doesn't poison her mind anymore.

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* * *

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"Mary?"

"Yes, Mama?"

"Could you please find Mrs Hughes for me, and see that Rosamund's room is ready?"

Mary looks up from the book she's reading. Her mother is standing in the doorway of the small library, a pile of letters in one hand, a pen in the other. "She will be in time for tomorrow's state visit after all, she didn't know for sure yesterday."

Her mother sighs. "Apparently she wouldn't miss it for the world. Her words to your Papa over the phone, or so he said."

"That sounds rather ominous, if you ask me," Mary comments, and they share small smiles.

"Mama?" Mary says when her mother moves to leave.

She turns back, and Mary puts her book aside, keeping her chin high as she speaks, her voice stronger than she actually feels. "I was thinking about asking Rosamund to take me with her when she goes back to London. Would that be alright? Did she say how long she'll stay?"

Her mother does nothing to conceal her surprise. She pauses a moment, then comes closer, and her voice is soft, her tone gentle as she speaks. "I don't think so, no, but however long that might be, I suppose it won't be a problem for her. You know Rosamund loves to have some company, especially yours."

She doesn't add any more than this, but Mary knows her mother, and she can sense the question that hovers in the still air.

She looks down at her hands on her lap, and only when she feels the cushions of the couch dip under her mother's weight she looks up at her, searching for her eyes, knowing that she will see, she will understand, she will support her, and so she talks, unhurriedly explaining her plans, how reasonable they are, how logical it is for her to make this choice.

She's not surprised when her mother squeezes her hands tenderly, like she hasn't done in years. She was crying then, but her eyes are dry now, and her mind made up, and she doesn't need comfort.

Her mother does not give her that, she just holds her hands more tightly for a moment before letting go, and if a small shadow passes over her clear eyes, Mary's not fast enough to catch it.

"It will be fine, my darling," she finally says gently, "eventually everything will be fine."

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Things are easier when you have a plan.

So Mary sits down at her father's desk right after luncheon, and writes a few lines in a neat, elegant handwriting on a small piece of paper. She folds it carefully, putting it in an envelope, and addressing it.

She hands it to Anna a few minutes later, when she's on her way out with Rosamund to her grandmother's, and the maid frowns as she reads the name of the addressee, but doesn't speak a word, only giving her a small smile, and a nod.

The trip to her grandmother's is tense, for Mary knows Rosamund wants to ask her what she needs to do in London, just as badly as she wants to share some "amazing news" she'd learned in London, but she won't talk in front of the chauffer, and so they sit, silently, in the car, till the Dowager House comes into view.

Tea is served, formalities are exchanged, and then, predictably, Lavinia's name comes up.

Maybe it's because it's expected, or maybe it's because it's over - undeniably, definitely, _finally_ over, and her mind is clearer somehow, and sharper, and the future is tangible, planned out in front of her, but she's not half as shocked by the news as she would have once been.

She argues, instead, that it sounds too ludicrous to be true, and that surely there must be more to it than what Rosamund knows.

"The point is, Mary, you now have the chance to expose Lavinia's dirty little secret, and save Matthew from the clutches of that scheming harlot. Won't you seize it?" Rosamund says, waggling her eyebrows at her.

And Mary is surprised to find out how simple it is to say, "no," quietly, but firmly, as her eyes focus on her hot tea, slightly whirling in its cup now, because it really is easier when you have a plan, and the future, not the past, is what your mind is set on.

"Mary dear," her grandmother intervenes, "I understand that you like that little girl, and I'll admit she's quite... nice... for a solicitor's daughter, but please think of Matthew." She pauses then, as Mary lifts her eyes to meet hers. "Would you really let Matthew marry that kind of woman?"

"And what kind of woman would that be?"

"Mary, you must see-"

"No," she says, and then again, "no." She averts her eyes, taking a small breath, curling her fingers around her cup, the heat from the elegant porcelain warming her cold skin. "Whatever happened between Matthew and me it's in the past, and I would like you to understand this, and to stand by me when I-"

"If you wish me to stand by while my granddaughter gives up on the man she loves to marry a-"

"Granny!"

"But Mary-"

"No. I said no," and she stands up now, unable to stay still any longer. She keeps her voice as steady as she can while she speaks, her fingers clutching the back of her chair. "I'm sorry, granny, I truly am. I know you love me, I know you want me to be happy, but even if he does break things off with Lavinia, Matthew would never propose to me again, never."

"Mary, I wouldn't-" Rosamund begins.

"You told him," her grandmother interrupts, and it's not a question, and her clear eyes are stunned, for once, as she looks up at her. "Mary..."

"No. Matthew chose Lavinia to be his wife, he _loves_ her, and he's happy with her. I won't ruin that for him, and I'll ask you two to do the same."

She doesn't know if she's convinced them, but she's tired now, terribly so, and a headache begins pulsing behind her eyes. "I'll ask your butler to have Branson bring the car around," she announces as she moves a few steps away, and pulls the rope.

She waits, patiently, in the parlor of the Dowager house, and she barely looks at her grandmother when she kisses her on the cheek, and gets on the car.

She stares out of the window while Branson drives them back to Downton, ignoring Rosamund's gaze, and she sits by herself later that night, as her father informs them that Lavinia is coming down from London on the twelve o' clock train.

She breathes, a little faster than necessary while comfortably sitting in the drawing room after dinner, and when her mother looks at her, and asks if she's alright, Mary smiles brightly, proclaiming she's dreadfully tired, and she leaves the room bidding the family goodnight.

She barely sleeps that night, her mind full of blue eyes, retreating backs, and smiles that will never be hers, and when she wakes up the next day she feels drained, and exhausted, and dark shadows are under her eyes.

She keeps to herself for most of the morning, and she doesn't speaks at lunch, and when Lavinia comes up from Crawley House a few hours later she finds out that it's not easy to smile. She tries, but it's tight, and weary, and she notices Rosamund's pointed look, but she can't seem to care.

She's not surprised, however, when Lavinia comes to her, a few minutes afterwards, so she takes her into the small library, and reveals what she knows, and Lavinia, good, lovely Lavinia, bows her head, hands clutching desperately in her lap as she tells her own secret in a small, scared voice. Mary nods gravely as she listens to her, and when Lavinia's finished and their eyes meet, the hint of a smile graces Mary's lips.

It's still tight, it's still hollow, but Lavinia looks grateful, and her eyes are sincere, and Mary knows.

"Here, he would want to see you first," she tells her when they're all lined up right outside the doors of Downton, one hour later.

"But you're the eldest daughter, you should stand behind your mother," Lavinia protests.

"This will be your home one day," she explains, "this is your right, and he would want to see you."

Lavinia smiles, and Mary lowers her eyes on the ground before her, because it's easier when you have a plan.

She will learn to live without Matthew, for this is how it should be, she thinks, as she hears the tires of the cars fast approaching from down the road.

She will learn to live without his affection, his respect, for this is how it is, she ponders, as they finally appear from behind the corner.

She will go on, she will survive, for this is what she does, and she watches the two cars arriving and stopping in front of the house.

Her hands close in fists, and then relax.

Her shoulders straighten, and her chin is high, as she stops, stands still and waits.

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**_To be continued..._**

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_._

_And here we go. _

_I feel like I could write more than one meta on this chapter, but I'm way more interested in what YOU thought about it, so please, review away :)  
_

_Also, you can find me on Tumblr (patsan,tumblr,com), and you're free to ask/share/point out whatever you like whenever you feel up to it._

_I should probably add that with this chapter we're somehow at a turning point. Things will still be very close to canon, but since the feelings are now very different, some events might happen a little faster. Enough said! Thank you for your attention, I CAN'T WAIT to know your thoughts on this chapter :)  
_


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